


fantaisie impromptu

by schoolboys



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:05:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3097568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schoolboys/pseuds/schoolboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>adrian sutil does not become a formula one driver. lewis hamilton does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fantaisie impromptu

Adrian Sutil is not a Formula One driver. But here he is in the paddock on a Friday morning in Hockenheim, clad in Mercedes team gear, deep in conversation with Nico Rosberg.

'Lewis!' Nico calls out, waving in your general direction. You do not hurry over. You walk in slow, measured steps, careful to avoid the puddles caused by the rain.

'Hey,' you say, but you do not look at Adrian. Your grip on your umbrella is tight, and Adrian holds the umbrella for him and Nico. 'What's he doing here?'

'How rude,' Nico chides. He turns to look at Adrian, smiling. 'I was just telling Adrian to be careful with my car during FP2. He's our third driver, you know.'

'What?'

Adrian rolls his eyes, and Nico throws his head back in laughter.

'You haven't changed,' Adrian says, addressing you directly.

'What do you mean,' you demand, and Nico jabs a thumb in the direction of Adrian's pass hanging around his neck.

Adrian is a guest. Adrian is not a driver.

'Adrian is a star,' Nico says, and Adrian shakes his head. 'He's famous. Grammy nominee last year for classical music or something.'

'Best classical instrumental solo,' Adrian says stiffly, and Nico grins. Adrian groans, realising what he had fallen for.

'Congrats,' you say, but you are addressing no one in particular. You are not on talking terms with Adrian. You are at the McLaren garage. You should go. 'I'll see you around,' you say, turning to leave.

'I told you I shouldn't've come,' Adrian says once your back is turned.

'You're in my garage, not his,' Nico retorts.

Adrian is with Nico. Adrian is not with you.

 

The rain stops by the time FP2 starts, and your fastest time is even slower than Nico's. You return to the McLaren garage, wet and grumpy and miserable and you have a text message waiting for you on your phone.

_Dinner tonight?_

There is a time and a location, and the message is from an unknown number. But you know better, because there can only be one person who would send this.

 

You do not show up.

 

It is three in the morning and you are in the bathroom of your hotel staring at your reflection in the mirror thinking that no, you have nothing against Adrian. Wherever he went after 2005 had been his decision to make, and you had no say in that.

You do not resent him for disappearing.

 

Sometime in 2007, pre-season testing, perhaps, you had called Nico, drunk, and had mumbled something about Adrian wondering where did he fuck off to and if the Midland deal had gone sour. Nico had laughed, asking if you had gotten stuck in 2006 and if you wanted Adrian's number, but when he had said _I didn't know you cared that much about him_ you had hung up, throwing your phone across the room.

 

You make it a point to avoid Adrian for the whole of Saturday and Nico too, for good measure. You hide in McLaren hospitality longer than you usually do, and if anyone thinks it strange, they do not ask.

 

The track is wet on race day and you pass Jenson early on in the race and that is the only advance you make through the field. You finish fourth, and for some reason, you are tired beyond belief.

 

You are nursing your third glass of whisky at the hotel bar when you spot Adrian from across the room. You will him not to come closer to no avail, and he slides into the seat beside you.

'Hey,' he says, looking forward at the bottles of alcohol behind the bar and not at you.

'Shouldn't you be with Nico.' You sound accusing. Bitter. Something stirs in your gut, and when he turns to face you, your fingers itch. Like you long to take a swing at him, punch him in the face, maybe.

'Do you blame me for leaving?' he asks, voice barely audible over the jazz played by the live band.

'Who do you think you are,' you snort.

'We were teammates, once,' he says.

'Once,' you echo.

He beckons for the bartender, and tells him that he will have whatever you are having. When his glass of whisky arrives, he raises his glass to you. 'For old times' sake?'

You grunt, clinking glasses with him, and you drink.

 

Once upon a time you had argued with Adrian and you had ended up wrestling with each other on your bed in some hotel back in your years in the Formula 3 Euroseries. Teammates argue, they say, but they do not argue with as much ferocity as you do with Adrian and you had one hand on his neck and straddling his hips as he looked up at you, eyes unblinking. You do not remember what the argument had been about, but you do remember feeling his erection against yours, and his hips had bucked forward involuntarily, eager for more friction and you had wanted more, but how could you want this with someone like him?

You had pulled away soon enough, fleeing the room. After all the times when his knee had knocked against yours under that table, after all the times when he had leaned in far too close, after all the times when you had caught him staring at you while you changed. You had started noticing him in ways that mystified you because that was how you had noticed girls, not boys, and if anything it was Nico who looked more like a girl and not Adrian who was already much taller than you. But it was Adrian you looked at in the end, the thought of Adrian's hand moving downwards from your shoulder to other parts of your body and it had been terrifying because you had never felt that way before. And then that had happened and what else could you label it as? Just an accident.

Nothing more than an accident.

 

(You win in the end, Adrian is the runner-up to your champion and when Adrian shows up at your hotel room to tell you that if he could change something with you he would have never let you go that night you kick him out of your room and you slam the door in his face.

And later on when your father comes back to the room you regret and regret and regret but oh, it is far too late, too late.)

 

You have one arm slung over Adrian's shoulders and he drags you forward, one hand on your waist.

'One more drink,' you slur, pawing at Adrian's shirt. Your keycard is somewhere on the floor and everything around you spins, spinning spinning spinning.

'Sleep,' Adrian says.

The bed feels too soft under you, and you groan.

 

One week later and on lap twenty three in Budapest, you retire with a gearbox failure. As you climb out of your car, a voice in your head whispers _at least Adrian isn't watching_ and your stomach turns.

 

Summer break. You are in New York with Nicole when she tells you that maybe you should be apart for a while.

You want to say _I don't understand_ but the words _we probably should_ make it past your lips instead.

 

 _Hush Hush; Hush Hush_ by the Pussycat Dolls come on on the radio when you are driving. The traffic light turns red and you stop.

Some part of you wonders if Nicole is singing this thinking of you. The traffic light turns green, and you step on the accelerator.

You are not crying.

 

Two weeks into August you receive a pair of tickets in the mail. It is accompanied by a call from Nico, who tells you excitedly about Adrian's concert with the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra and he asks you to bring Nicole. You tell him that Nicole is busy, and you have things planned but he sees through you immediately.

(The part about you having things planned, but not the part about Nicole because how could he know, really)

 

This is the second piece that the orchestra is playing, or the third, or the fourth you have no idea because you know nothing of this, really. You do not go for classical things, you go to concerts where Nicole looks at you and winks at you and blows kisses your way, or to concerts where you are occasionally invited onstage because you know whoever's performing. Not things like this when no one claps in between pieces and you sneak a glance at Nico who sits by you and he looks genuinely ecstatic listening to Adrian play and you get it, you really do, that it sounds beautiful and everything but there is something you are missing that you cannot quite put your finger on. So you look down at the stage, concentrating on Adrian, because if all else fails, at least there is something, no, someone you can still understand.

 

Nothing could have prepared you for the realisation that Adrian on stage is different from Adrian on track. The fire is different, you think. Wild on track but controlled and subdued but passionate nonetheless here on the piano. Maybe it is age. Maybe it is the different medium. Maybe... You do not have an answer.

 

Afterwards Adrian comes up to the three of you and thanks you all for coming and Nico tells him that you would have showed up anyway even without the tickets and it is only then that you realise that it is Adrian who had invited you, not Nico. There are groups of others wanting to whisk Adrian away but he stays, and Nico trips over his words in English and lapses into German and by then you know that the English had been only for your benefit. And Adrian smiles as Vivian smiles at him, and you can only guess that she says something along the lines of _fantastic performance_ while Nico nods, eyes shining. Then Adrian looks to you and you look back at him, hands shoved into the pockets of your trousers and there should be something you can say to him that would be appropriate for the occasion, but the words do not come and instead you mumble 'Great job man.'

Nico throws an arm around you and pulls you closer, teasing 'Come on, that's all you have to say after that performance? It was mind-blowing!'

Adrian laughs, and the sound is familiar. You have heard it before, in your younger days in the Rosberg home in Monaco, when you had watched in fascination as Adrian had performed on the piano for you and Nico. You had praised his playing and he had scratched the back of his head and looked down and said it was nothing and for a moment you had believed him but now that you are here, after that standing ovation, you know that this is everything.

 

Glass after glass of champagne and you end up with Adrian in your hotel room with him lying on his back on your bed and you kiss him, hands cupping his cheeks but his arms do not find their way around you and you pull away, puzzled.

'Lewis,' he says, voice strained.

'What's wrong?' you ask, and you lean in to kiss him again but he turns away.

'I can't,' he says, but you pull him in and kiss him again and his lips are soft against yours. But he does not kiss back and you pull away, disappointed.

So you change tactics. 'You said you'd get to F1 with me. You lied.'

Adrian looks at you, eyes unreadable. 'You weren't ready to be with me back then. Looking back I guess I wasn't ready either, but I wasn't ready for F1 too. The Midland deal fell through and in that one year I realised I wasn't ever going to be ready, so I left.'

'But you came back for me,' you say, confused. 'Hockenheim. Why?'

'I played the piano for the German national anthem,' Adrian says flatly. 'I was a Mercedes guest.'

'Not Nico's?'

'No.' Adrian sighs. 'The world doesn't revolve around you, Lewis,' he says, voice soft.

'Then what about the dinner? The text? It was you, wasn't it?'

'Oh,' Adrian actually looks sheepish now. 'That was Nico. He left his phone in the garage, so he had borrowed mine. You didn't show, so it was just the two of us.'

You look at him, silent now. You ought to say something, maybe you should kiss him again, but there is not much point in doing that now, really.

'Did you break up with Nicole,' Adrian asks, voice gentle.

You do not reply, even though you are tempted to say _how did you know about us, I thought you didn't care_.

'You don't have to do this,' he says. He looks older in the light of the hotel room. 'Our time is gone, Lewis.'

You look at him, eyes narrowed. 'But we never started,' you say, and he winces.


End file.
